


Sweet Spot

by danidraper



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, RPF - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danidraper/pseuds/danidraper
Summary: Sophia leads a perfectly normal life as a 20-something Editorial Assistant at a small publishing house in Manhattan. Chris is taking a few months off of acting, bouncing back and forth between Boston and New York in an attempt to work on his screenplay. When the two happen upon each other in Central Park one spring day, neither of them thought that a debate concerning the preferred level of sweetness in apples would lead to anything more than a quirky exchange, but they'd both be wrong.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Five Second Rule

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first crack at writing fanfiction in any capacity, so please do criticize but do it constructively! And yes, that means that once we get to it, it will be my first time writing smut, but we have a little while yet before that happens. For now, enjoy all the meet-cute fluffiness that ensues.

It was one of those days that fall within the two blissful weeks during New York's transition from winter to spring, and everything is perfect. The air feels new and fresh; it hasn’t gotten humid and stale with heat like it would in the summer months, and yet it was still warm enough to leave home without a coat and the sun was shining. Your boss left early on Fridays and most of the time you’d stay until 5:00 and keep working, but this weather called for a change of plans. 

As you walked out of the Midtown high-rise in which Fairlawn, the independent publishing house, kept its floor of New York offices, you passed by a fruit vendor and bought the biggest, ripest-looking Granny Smith apple you could find. With your headphones on and your favorite snack tucked in your bag next to your well-worn copy of *Jane Eyre* (somehow the most boring yet captivating of the classics), you made your way to Central Park. 

The scent of hot dogs and gusts of subway air blasting through the grates in the sidewalk reach your nose, and yet as you cross the threshold into the park you feel transported into some sort of urban jungle. You entered from the southeast corner, across from the Plaza. You never felt completely alone in the city, but walking alone on the busy sidewalks felt a lot more lonely than strolling alongside teenagers on skateboards, runners with canine companions by their sides, and children fleeing the clutches of their parents in pursuit of tagging one another. This felt much more communal, more warm. You walked for about ten minutes until you saw a small hill that looked out over a sizeable expanse of grass, on which you could see a variety of groups taking advantage of the agreeable weather. Climbing until you were about 10 feet below the top, you sat so you could lean back on your backpack and still be on an incline that permitted you to look out around you. 

You took your headphones out momentarily to enjoy the cacophony of noises emerging from your surroundings. Manhattan was never quiet, but some environments were more fun to listen to than others. You pulled out your apple and took a bite of the tart, juicy fruit. Just as you looked up to the sun and were about to close your eyes, basking in the light and hoping you’d get some Vitamin D today after the long winter, you heard a quiet thud from behind you and a man’s voice whisper under his breath, “Shit!” before you turned around. 

Just as you did, you discovered the cause of the thud; rolling down the hill towards you at an increasing pace was a red apple. You reached out and grabbed it with your right hand before it could continue its trajectory all the way to the bottom of the hill, and turned your torso to face its owner. 

“Five second rule?” you offered with a smile and tossed the fruit back up to the man. He was only a couple yards above you and caught it with ease. He had dark blonde hair and wore tinted sunglasses and a Patriots cap. *That’s a brave thing to wear in New York.* 

“Thanks, sorry about that. I would consider it, but I don’t think the pigeons leave any stone untouched around here, so it’s probably best if I don’t. It’s a bummer, though, I was looking forward to eating that.” He looked genuinely disappointed as he set the apple down next to him, and then he looked up at you and noticed what you were holding. “You know, I would say I’m jealous but I really can’t be when that abomination of an apple variety is what you chose to eat with your own free will. Everybody knows Fiji reigns supreme,” he teased, grinning. 

Your eyebrows rose as you feigned insult and replied, “Oh, well excuuuuse me for having advanced enough taste buds to know that tartness is the one true qualifier of a good apple. You and your vanilla-ass sweet varieties can take a hike.” 

You thought that maybe you had laid on the sarcasm a little thick but, to your surprise, he burst out laughing and clutched his chest. Why do you feel like you’ve seen someone else who does that when they laugh? “Well, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. I know I’m in the majority though.” He stuck his tongue out as you, and the sight of it made you laugh as well. What a child. You roll your eyes at him just as he says, “Can I join you?”. You nod, giving him a shy smile and he returns it, grabbing his stuff and scooting down the hill until he’s sat right next to you. 

“I’m Chris.” He reaches across to offer you his hand. 

“I’m Sophia. Nice to meet you.” You shake his hand and face forward again, taking another bite of your apple. 

“Likewise. Now may I ask for what sadistic reason do you prefer eating literal sour apples?” 

“Ha ha, very funny. To be honest, I’ve just always liked them better. They are better for apple pie, too, which is not a fact you can easily dismiss.” He bows his head in consolation at that. “But really, I think I ate one too many Galas or Fijis or something as a kid and I’ve been turned off of them ever since. Blegh,” you add, looking down at the apple by his side. Something about his voice pulled at the back of your brain. It sounded very familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

“As much as I emphatically disagree about your position on tart fruit, I get the whole ‘eating something too much as a kid’ situation. I have the same thing with Goldfish. The crackers, not the animals.” 

You laughed, “I got that. I don’t think many people snack on the average carnival goldfish. You can keep both in bowls, though.” That garnered another burst of laughter, and it was in that moment when you realised who you were talking to. 

“Hang on,” you interrupted his reaction in a serious tone. “Are you who I think you are?” 

His smile darkened only slightly as he said, “Busted. Please don’t scream or post on social media--I’ve managed to make it all day without being noticed.” 

“Hm. Well, I must admit, I was positively *dying* to tell all of Twitter how passionately Chris Evans--America's superhero hearthrob-- feels about *apple varieties*. Do you think US Weekly would pay me a ton of money for that story?” you tease, but recognising how difficult it must be to lose basically any semblance anonymity, you add, “I won’t say anything, dude, don’t worry.” 

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. The sad thing is, I bet you would get a decent amount of money for that. But you’d need proof. Do you want a picture?” His face looks a little tired as he offers, and you know he must see this as part of the transaction that comes with meeting him in public. It makes you sad to imagine all the people that must approach him with the sole goal of getting a picture with him, and not for any real conversation. 

You look out again, this time focusing on a pair of five year olds using their picnic blankets as capes and shrieking gleefully as they played superheroes. 

“My nephew would kill me if he ever found out I met you and didn’t get one, but no. I don’t need a picture. I’ll tell my grandkids the story of how I debated Captain America about which type of apple was the best while sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, and they’re just gonna have to take my word for it, like we did with our grandparents. No photo evidence to be seen.” Grinning, you nudge him with your shoulder, trying to get him loosen up as you take another bite of your Granny Smith. 

Still a little unsure, he replied, “How old is your nephew?”

“Nine. He was Spider-Man last year for Halloween, but only because he’s been Captain America every year since he was four and my sister thought he should change it up for once.” As he hears the cute details about Leo, Chris’s face starts to melt and you can practically see the guilt forming, even with the sunglasses masking his eyes. Suddenly, you can see that an idea has occurred to him because an excited expression takes over. 

“I have an idea. Not only will I take a photo for your nephew, but I will record a video message for him myself, on one condition. You let me buy you a drink.”


	2. The End of the Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Chris's perspective on fame and Sophia offers him a new way to look at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind and comment! Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome.

_Did he just say...he wants to buy me a drink? Me? Am I not getting enough oxygen to my brain? Oh my god, did I forget to breathe? Shit. This is Chris Evans, for God’s sake. I really, really don’t want to be ambushed by paparazzi or anything, but at the same time, this is Chris *fucking* Evans! I can’t say no! It would break Leo’s heart, and even though it’ll go nowhere, I’ll have ended this normal Friday with a very abnormal story to tell._

You cock your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him, trying to downplay the inner freak-out you were experiencing. “Coffee. And I get to choose where.” 

His grin grows wider, “Fine with me.” 

“Not yet, though. It’s too nice out to be inside,” you say, and with that you focus your gaze again outwards towards the sea of people enjoying the weather. “I know you’re, like, the type of famous that I can’t even fathom, but is getting to 3:00 without being spotted really such an unusual accomplishment for you?” 

“Yeah, pretty much. I don’t ever really leave the house without some sort of cover on my face or head. I try not to let it keep me cooped up but it can be daunting sometimes, knowing that an unknown majority of people will probably be able to recognise you at any given point,” he sighed. “But also, there’s so much of it that I love and wouldn’t give up. Especially when it comes to the kids, there’s nothing better than making their faces light up. It’s a real gift, and it’s not *their* fault that their parents behave like total assholes.” 

“I’m not sure I’d ever want to be famous. I mean, I know there are a lot worse things to be, when you take it at face value, but I feel like there must be some sort of trauma that occurs as a result of being so well known like that, especially if it was something that happened overnight. I wonder if there’s anything in your life that your fame hasn’t altered or at least touched in some way...if it were me, I feel like I’d feel the ramifications of it everywhere. Maybe it’s something you get used to?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely used to it since my childhood and essentially all of my ‘formative years’ were spent out of the spotlight, but I think you acclimate as best as you can and you just get on with it. I sometimes think about how ignorant and downright despicable it is when I hear Hollywood people complain about the most mundane things because, like, come on. Every single need of ours is met, and if it isn’t? Well, you can darn well pay your way to getting it. At least, most of ‘em. You can’t buy real connection, but that’s why so many celebrities end up dating and marrying within the industry. No one else gets it.”

You take another bite of your apple and your brow furrows in contemplation. Looking out over the green expanse of Central park, at the kids scootering and college kids tossing frisbees and the couples tangled together on the hillside, you suddenly feel exposed, sitting next to an ultra-famous, albeit well-disguised, man. It was as if you were dangling yourself out as prey and the vultures were going to notice you any minute. 

Trying to shake that image out of your head, you glance at Chris’s face and ask, “Do you think less people would have dreams of being famous if they knew what it was really like?”

“Oh, for sure. I think our society puts famous people on such a bizarre pedestal, and if any normal person were to spend even just a week as a celebrity, I think they would realise the sacrifices and the lack of privacy might not be worth the money and recognition. Again, I’m more than grateful for what I have and I really do recognise that the privilege I’m privy to is extraordinary--that’s why I try to do good with the platform I’ve been given. But it doesn’t change the fact that I wish more people would focus on what they already have and that maybe that’s worth more than fame and fortune, because it normally is.”

You take a deep breath and as you exhale you lay back on the grass, your gaze drifting straight out towards the cotton white, wispy clouds that drifted within the vignette created by the neighbouring skyscrapers. 

“Well, hey, at least you know.”

Chris turns on his side and leans back on his left elbow, looking down at you with a look of confusion. “Know what?”

“You know that what everybody pines for and lusts after isn’t actually what they should be aspiring to, or at least isn’t the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so to speak. You are one of the few who have the distinct luxury of having once been a person who dreamed of fame and fortune and then actually *having* it. You don’t have to waste your whole life chasing after it because you already know it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, perks and money aside. And now, you can focus on doing what you love for the sake of it rather than for gaining means of survival.” 

He takes off his sunglasses, a bemused smirk pulling at the side of his mouth and you can feel his blue eyes staring at you but you keep your gaze focused on the clouds.

“Wow.” He let up his seemingly ceaseless stare and laid back on the grass, mimicking your position. “I never thought of it that way. I always knew I would be lucky to make a living doing this, and for the past however many years I’ve earned far more than just a living. I mean, come on, I’m the luckiest guy on earth for all I have and what I can give my family and friends because of it, not to mention the quality of the people around me that I’ve met doing this job. But you’re right, it’s a different kind of luck, having gotten to the other side of the dream and being able to look back, knowing what it all actually means on a day-to-day level. That’s a whole other level of it that I can have gratitude for.” He turns his head away from the sky and towards you, your faces barely foot apart. As you turn your head towards him, you notice a dandelion behind him and reach to pluck it out of the ground. 

You try not to notice your breath hitching ever so slightly in your chest as you focus on the flower-like weed in your hand rather than his eyes on you. Raising your eyes towards his, you let your hand fall to your side and focus on not letting all your blood rush to your cheeks. 

“See now, Captain? There’s always something more we can be grateful for. Frankly, it’s my key to staying sane.” 

“Well, apple casualty aside, I’m grateful to have met you today. And I’ll let you get away with calling me Captain, but only because I like you.” 

You really hope he isn’t realising how the combination of his silly grin and sincere look in his eyes is rendering you mute for fear of stumbling over your words. As the seconds pass and the awareness of the closeness between you intensifies, you get an idea. Fast as lightning you bring the dandelion by your side up to his face and, after taking a deep breath, blow all the white floaty bits into his face, giggling and pushing yourself up into a standing position all in a matter of seconds.

“Hey!” he protests, spluttering and dramatically moving his hands trying to get all the little future dandelions out of his eyes and mouth. 

“Poor baby,” you tease as you stand over him. You shield your eyes from the sun with your left hand and offer him your right to help him get up. He takes it and you feel callouses in the spaces where his palm meets his fingers as he stands. You can’t believe how how simply you seem to have transitioned from being total strangers to being comfortable enough for playful banter. 

Your eyes are full of mirth but are hiding slight terror as you pose the question you’re terrified to hear the answer to. 

“So how about that coffee, hm?”


End file.
